My life has been just a little story—and a strange little story at that.
And for all my talk of fantasy, and novelty, and newness, and choice, and action based on free choice, I find I have not changed.
Yes, for all those things, taken up as they have been— fantasy, and novelty, and newness, and choice, and action based on free choice—I think I have not changed; may not, indeed, be able to change.
Things have happened to me, they've influenced me, and because of those things the course of my life has altered in respect of them, but in the face of it all I remain me—infected by the germ of me.
The unchanging me abides with I who am me.
And I suffer sometimes an outbreak of me, an overcoming attack of me, even sometimes an epidemic of me as I am swamped by the unchanging self of me.
And so ‘the world runs away’ and drains in swirls around my feet, fixed as they are to the uncertain ground of my unchanging becoming.
